Andy McNab - War torn

The headman's house was extensive. The entire complex, house and yard, was bounded by high, thick walls. Shady trees were visible over the top. It was a tantalizing sight from the hot, dusty world outside.

'OK, dismount,' Dave said. His soldiers positioned themselves around the walls.

Only one armed soldier was going into the meeting. Dave had chosen Jamie. He was to adopt an alert but non-threatening stance near the door.

Major Willingham and his team got out of the wagon. The boss held the door open for the two women. Dave didn't miss the officer's glance at the attractive girl from the Intelligence Corps, or the way she swept past him without looking at him or thanking him. Jamie followed the group closely.

Inside, Jean and Asma sat down on the carpet. As usual, just being here felt wrong. They knew that, for the Afghans in the room, their role in the men's discussions was barely tolerable. Women where they shouldn't be. Women negotiating with men. Women in trousers.

Asma lowered her eyes as she sat down and hid her legs. She had grown up hating burqas and all they stood for. Symbols of Islamic oppression. But whenever she sat on a carpet in her combat gear with the smell of sweet tea wafting around her, all she wanted was a burqa. She suspected covering yourself from head to toe in shapeless folds and creases gave you a kind of escape, even a kind of protection – not just from men, but from yourself.

Boss Weeks sat down next to her.

'As salaam alai kum,' he said to their hosts. Asma raised her eyebrows, Major Willingham stared at him, but the Afghans smiled and responded with a similar greeting.

'Been learning the lingo, eh? Well at least they understood you.' Martyn Robertson lowered himself creakily on Asma's other side. 'Had a guy called Boyle in the last company who kept trying to speak the lingo and the locals never understood a word he said!'

The head tribesman went through the usual welcome procedures but Asma felt he chose his words with unusual grace and sensitivity. As Jean translated Asma could not resist murmuring to the boss: 'The way this man's talking: he's a cut above a lot of the others we meet.'

The man introduced his two sons, who also sat cross-legged on the carpet. There were other, older men alongside them who weren't introduced. Standing at the edges of the room, leaning silently against the rugs that hung on the walls, were more men, most of them young, some still boys. And by the doors stood a tall rifleman. He balanced his weight evenly on both feet. From time to time Jean glanced at him. She never once saw him move.

Asma took over the interpretation. Major Willingham made a short speech which sounded as though he had learned it off by heart. He said that NATO was committed to supporting the democratically elected government of Afghanistan, and that the Afghan people should decide their own future and not let the Taliban tell them what to do. The Taliban were using and attacking civilians while Britain was committed to helping the Afghans create a stable, peaceful country which was true to its Islamic principles. Britain would fight extremism and do everything possible to help Afghanistan's reconstruction and development.

Asma had translated similar speeches often before. This time, however, she found herself embellishing it a little. Afghanistan was a great country, she added, and it was time for such a country to take its rightful place on the world stage, something it could never do if the Taliban was in control. She glanced at Jean as she spoke. Jean raised an eyebrow. Asma wanted to giggle, until she saw the effect of her words on the Afghans present and knew she had said the right thing.

The elder son started to speak, thanking Major Willingham for his generous and noble words. Jean translated this with precision and the officer, who had no idea of Asma's embroidery, looked startled.

The son now turned to Martyn.

'I understand that you are in our area to look for precious oil and gas reserves. Please tell us more about this.'

Martyn grinned. His brown face was as wrinkled as the rock formations that fascinated him.

'Well, we've found something interesting. I'm sure there are reserves here, but that isn't enough. It has to be possible to extract the oil.'

'And what would that mean for our area?'

'A natural resource always means one thing: greater wealth and jobs.' Martyn glanced at Major Willingham.

'And that would lead to greater stability,' the OC added.

'If drilling starts here – and it would only start with the full agreement of the Afghan people – then my company would certainly be making a substantial investment in this area,' Martyn said.

The elder son smiled politely. 'I have spent time in Saudi Arabia.'

Jean saw both the major and Boss Weeks lean forward with interest. She knew what they were thinking. How had this son of a tribesman travelled so far if not with the support of some outside group?

The son continued. 'Are you suggesting we might have oil reserves like theirs?'

Martyn laughed. 'I can't promise to turn Helmand Province into Saudi. But there could be enough oil to make a difference around here. Where there's oil and gas, roads follow and better housing, better sanitation, improved health care… all the things you and your government want.'

'When did you visit Saudi?' Boss Weeks asked.

Asma could tell he badly wanted to know the answer but was trying not to sound too keen. She added a note of polite restraint as she translated the question.

'I studied at university there before returning to my homeland. With my qualifications I could have stayed in Saudi Arabia or travelled anywhere in the world, but I wanted to come back to my home and work for the good of my people.'

Asma looked hard at Boss Weeks, willing him to make an appropriately cordial response.

He said lamely: 'That was jolly good of you.'

'Your action shows great commitment and love for your people and they must surely benefit greatly,' she said. The son looked pleased. Jean nodded her approval. The two women often despaired at the diplomatic incompetence of the officers.

They discussed the needs of the village and what the British Army could realistically supply. They talked about electrical generators and wells and walls around the school yard. Two old men in spotless robes brought everyone more tea. They offered a plate of round, flat savoury bread. Asma took a piece. The very smell of it, the way it sat in her hand, reminded her of her mother's kitchen.

The elder son took this opportunity to speak directly to Asma. He had piercing blue eyes and sharp features. The younger son looked plumper-faced and spoilt.

'May I ask how you, a woman of fine Afghan features and good Pashtun breeding, came to speak both our language and English so perfectly?'

Asma looked down at the carpet, studying its tiny loops and intricate colours. She knew it could take a woman a year or more to make a carpet like this.

'My family left Afghanistan when I was young,' she said. 'And of course we spoke Pashtu at home. I spoke English at school.'

She thought of that home. A grey flat made of grey concrete in a grey block under grey skies. Did it ever stop raining over their patch of east London? Was it ever anything but grey?

Impulsively she told him: 'Now I have returned to Afghanistan I do not understand why my father took us away.'

He looked pleased by this.

'Where is your tribal homeland?' he asked. But Asma knew better than to answer this question. Tribal complications ran deep and vengeance and anger could leap across generations and geography. They could even cross this boiling plain and somehow arrive in a wet, grey concrete flat in London.

'I should not come to your house and talk about myself,' she said shyly, 'when there is so much to discuss about the future of this area.'